


North Child Espresso and Cocktail Bar

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, MeetCute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: “So, give me your honest opinion. What do you think about this guy?”Tim guiltily looked up from the instructional copy he’d been pretending to write for the last half hour. “Um?”“And don’t pretend you weren’t listening. I know you’ve had your laptop muted for at least the last 20 minutes,” the cute stranger said.Tim's attempt at working in a coffee shop is interrupted by someone's pretty bad first date.





	North Child Espresso and Cocktail Bar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sealdog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/gifts).



> For a prompt on my tumblo: "maybe a meetcute w tim and rhys? or something with tim and coffee, if you prefer!! :D"

Tim was ecstatic when North Child opened in his neighbourhood, even though he knew he shouldn’t have been. He lived in what still counted as an up-and-coming area, that had not yet crossed the line to fully gentrified. He and the other poors kept a close eye on the new businesses moving in, and North Child might’ve been a harbinger of worse news to come.

It was the sort of café that stayed open from the break of the day to the start of the next, because it served coffee and cocktails. The interior was sleek and dark, a polished walnut bar with brass trappings. Classy as hell, and wonderfully cave-like on a hot summer day.

Tim was ecstatic because he was a freelancer and, like many freelancers, he’d had it up to here with Starbucks. He’d been seriously considering paying the fees for the local office share, but it was hard to convince himself to commit to another monthly expense. The boxing gym was bad enough. North Child Espresso and Cocktail Bar was the answer.

It helped that North Child’s coffee was a whole flight of stairs above Starbucks’ fare. Tim had seen more than one deadline through on the back of a North Child cup of dark roast.

During the day, Tim could work peacefully, seated in the corner booth, nursing a cup or five while the staff played their collection of jazz vinyl over the stereo. During the day, the clientele were mostly people like Tim, glued to their laptops, struggling towards a deadline while picking the crumbs of a vegan blueberry muffin off of their plate. It was peaceful enough.

But things changed at night, when the business day ended. Normally, Tim would’ve cleared out as soon as the clock struck freedom for office drones, but on that particular day, he’d been too engaged with his work. He didn’t notice the change in the atmosphere until the lights grew dimmer, and the music grew louder. When he emerged from his work bubble, it was to discover the café had made its gentle shift into an evening hangout and meat market. Most of Tim’s people had snapped their Macs closed and left for the evening, replaced by a sea of 20-somethings dressed in quirky business casual. Tim probably should’ve followed, should’ve control-s’d and closed down for the day, but he never liked leaving an article half-written. Another hour, he reasoned, wouldn’t kill him.

And then, twenty minutes into his extra hour, a handsome, slim man slid into the booth beside him. Tim looked up, startled at the intrusion.

“Is it okay if we sit here?” he asked after he’d sat down. Tim hadn’t realised how busy things had gotten until then. The bar was swamped, and nearly every table was full. The next thing Tim realised was just how distressingly attractive the newcomer was.

“Of course,” Tim said. He knew he was staring, but it was difficult not to.

As a writer, Tim liked to pick out a single physical quirk in each person, to try and decide how he might describe them if they were his one of his characters. But the handsome stranger had a lot going on, and Tim could think of no one thing that stood out over the rest.

There were his eyes, one brown and the other blue. There was his navy blue cashmere sweater, which must’ve cost a small fortune. There were his tight pants, which Tim tried not to notice for too long. Tattoos on his neck, and more peeking out from under his collar. Blue ink stark against pale pink skin. There was his right hand, a sleek, black and blue cybernetic that almost certainly cost more than what Tim earned last year.

The stranger had a nice smile, too. “Thanks,” he said.

Tim looked away only when he heard the screech of a chair being dragged across the floor. Another stranger had taken the seat opposite, and he was easier to catalogue. Black hair, wore a blue suit, had a tight smile. He looked polished, shiny hair and shiny shoes. He wore a golden tie pin.

The tie pin was the stand-out. Tim could write an entire paragraph about the sort of person who wore a tie pin to a neighbourhood like this, to a place like North Child.

He gave Tim’s new seatmate a winning smile. The both of them proceeded to do what strangers always did when forced to share a communal table: they erected an invisible wall between themselves and Tim, and started aggressively focusing on each other.

Tim put his earbuds back in, but he didn’t turn his music back on (‘24 HOURS Study Music Alpha Waves: Relaxing Studying Music, Brain Power, Focus Concentration Music ☯’). He stared at his screen and tapped a few sentences out while he eavesdropped. He had a feeling about these two.

They were dressed up but in very different styles, which meant they couldn’t have worked at the same office. Their conversation (small talk about the coffee, the location) was too stiff to take place between friends. This was almost certainly a first date. They probably met on the internet.

Tim continued to listen while he pretended to work. He learned the cute one was named Rhys. He learned tie pin’s name was Hugo.

“Like Hugo Boss, which is appropriate for me,” Hugo said. Rhys looked at him blankly. “Because I am a boss.”

“Oh,” Rhys said. Tim nearly rolled his eyes into the street.

He learned a lot about Hugo over the next twenty minutes. He learned that they liked his coffee as dark and bitter as possible, and that he was the sort of man with opinions about people who drank ‘chai vanilla half-frap mocchacinos’ which wasn’t a real drink, on any planet.

He learned that Hugo had been to every continent. That his trip to Thailand had changed his life.

He only stayed in five star resorts.

He ordered all his suits from Vietnam, where they hand-tailored them to his specifications.

In short, Tim learned that all of his snap judgements about Mr. Tie Pin were pretty much right on the money.

Tim had started to wonder if he should live tweet the date when Hugo stood up and left for the men’s room. Rhys let out a long sigh and slumped back in his seat.

“So, give me your honest opinion. What do you think about this guy?”

Tim guiltily looked up from the instructional copy he’d been pretending to write for the last half hour. “Um?”

“And don’t pretend you weren’t listening. I know you’ve had your laptop muted for at least the last 20 minutes,” the cute stranger said.

Tim hesitated. He’d already sketched out a petty plot in his head about Mr. Tie Pin, the theme of which revolved around westerners who exploit the labour and hospitality in South-East Asian countries getting their comeuppance. He hadn’t figured out the actual comeuppance yet. Maybe a shark would eat him. Not Tim’s finest work, but it would be enjoyable.

“You can be honest with me,” Rhys said. He leaned his head on his cybernetic hand, watching Tim through half-lidded eyes. A sort of bored come-hither that made Tim feel a little self-conscious about his ripped jeans.

“It’s not the worst first date I’ve ever eavesdropped on,” Tim admitted at last. “But I don’t think I’m witnessing a love connection today.”

“I already knew that,” Rhys said. “It’s too bad. I got all dressed up, too. I mean, I probably would’ve gotten dressed up for anyone because I love getting dressed up. Don’t you like this sweater?”

“I do,” Tim said.

“See? You could say that without making it a thing. You didn’t try to neg me about it. Did you hear him try to neg me before? What a waste. I really wanted to have a nice date night. I haven’t had a nice date in months. Years, maybe.”

“That’s a shame,” Tim said, meaning it.

“It is. Look at me. I should be on dates every night. People should be lining up at my doorstep for the privilege of taking me out someplace nice. Why do you think they haven’t?”

Tim hid a smile. “Maybe they’re intimidated?”

“He seemed nice enough on Bumble and I thought this could go someplace.”

“You thought wrong,” Tim said.

Rhys sighed, a heavy, dramatic gust of air. “I know that too. What do you think about Mr. Boss?”

“I think the only way he’d score with a game like _that,_ is if he were actually Hugo Boss,” Tim said.

“That’s mean.” Rhys’ eyes twinkled. “You think I’m some kind of sugarbaby, looking for a rich man to entrap?”

“I don’t know what a sugarbaby is,” Tim said.

“Don’t lie.” Rhys tapped the chipped edge of Tim’s laptop. “I saw you on Twitter before. You know exactly what it is. Are you a novelist or a screenwriter?”

Tim felt his face grow warm. “Um.”

“Because I’ve made a bet with myself. The kind of guy that looks the way you look, sitting in a place like this with his laptop open has got to be either writing a novel or a screenplay. So, which is it?”

“Freelancer, actually,” Tim said, a little defensively. He knew about the stereotypes about guys who looked like him with laptops in cafes, but that didn’t mean he had to like them.

Rhys’ eyebrows went up. “Really? Then what have you been fake writing all this time?”

“I’ve been actually writing a technical copy for a company that sells industrial central air units to office buildings,” Tim said.

Rhys pulled a face. “Oh. Snore. You should’ve lied to me, told me you writing something awesome.”

“Nobody writes anything awesome anymore.”

“I thought everybody working in a café was working on their, like, best novel. Novels that’ll change the world. Or their best movie. That’ll change the world, or at least Cannes. The next Broadway hit.”

“Nope,” Tim said, leaning back. “Fraid not. Everyone here is just working on copy, or producing content, or writing up social media marketing plans.”

“Are you telling me you aren’t a secret creative?” Rhys asked.

Tim looked down at his keyboard. He could feel himself turning red. Redder still when he caught Rhys grinning at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I knew it.” He nudged Tim’s leg with his foot. “Come on, you have to tell me, I’ve got a bet going. Novelist or screenwriter?”

Rhys had edged closer, his thigh less than an inch from Tim’s. Tim licked his lips.

“I’ve got good news and bad news for you,” Tim said, forcing his gaze back up to Rhys’ face. “I’m a novelist. Aspiring novelist.”

Rhys’ grin widened. He smelled like he worked in heaven’s bakery.

“Shoot,” he said. “And also hooray. I guess I win and lose.”

“That’s what happens when you make a bet with yourself,” Tim said weakly. It wasn’t his best stuff, but it was getting hard to think. Rhys appealed to every sense Tim had, and maybe to some he hadn’t discovered yet. He wondered just what he had to do to discover them now.

“So, what kind of things do you like to write? Are you working on anything right now?” Rhys leaned forward, right into Tim’s space, presumably to get a better look at the laptop’s screen.

“Uh. Nothing right this minute.” God, Tim must’ve gone beet red by now. He wondered what happened to Hugo. He prayed that whatever was keeping him would keep him a little while longer.

“If you were working on something right now, what would it be?” Rhys asked.

Finding out how far that tattoo of yours goes, Tim thought. Maybe take a look for any others you might have. He cleared his throat.

“Fantasy.” He winced. Fuck, that was actually worse than what he was thinking. Nobody wants to talk about fantasy novels.

“Like, Game of Thrones?” Rhys asked.

This was the worst possible turn this conversation could’ve taken. Tim shifted in his seat. “Not quite. Nothing that violent or… rapey.”

“Smart. Those are the two things I hate the most about that show. I like your shirt,” Rhys said.

Tim looked down at the pink t-shirt he’d thrown on before he left. A winking cat looked back.

“Thanks,” he said. “It was a gift from a friend. I volunteered at a cat shelter.”

God, this must’ve been divine karma, that he should go from the amused observer of an awkward date to the subject of one. Some jackass was no doubt listening in, maybe live tweeting it from their phone.

Rhys drew his finger down Tim’s chest, leaving a trail of fire under his skin. He smiled up at him.

“It’s really cute,” he said. “I like how it fits.”

Tim stared at him. He was clueless in a lot of ways, but he wasn’t _dead_.

“Are you seriously hitting on me while you’re already on a date with someone else?”

Rhys winced, but didn’t back off. “I guess that’s a little tacky,” he said. “But in my defense, this is a really bad date. I saw you as soon as I walked in here. I told myself that if this thing crashes and burns, I could at least give you my number.”

Tim’s mouth went dry. “Oh.”

“What’s your name?” Rhys asked.

“Um. Tim.” Should he shake his hand, or…?

“Hi, Tim,” Rhys said, sliding closer, his thigh pressing against Tim’s. “My name’s Rhys. Can I give you my number?”

Tim had a lot of problems. He was not the smoothest operator in town, as anyone within earshot no doubt guessed, but he liked to think he wasn’t hopeless. It wasn’t often the universe dropped a cute, funny opportunity with legs for days in his lap like this. Tim glanced to the back of the bar, where Hugo had vanished almost five minutes ago.

“I’ll do you one better.” He snapped his laptop shut. “You ditch this guy and meet me outside. I know a place a few blocks away. We can get a drink and maybe salvage this date night of yours,” he said. Rhys’ whole face lit up like sunshine after the storm.

“I would like that,” he said.

* * *

A few hours later, they left the little place Tim knew together, both a little drunker than they had been before and in far better spirits.

A cyclist breezed past, and a city bus rumbled in the opposite direction. The glittering pavement was littered with the faded remains of May’s blooms, the last of spring shaken off of every branch, replaced by green summer leaves and budding fruit. In a few weeks, this street would reek of rotting crabapples, but for now, it was nice.

Rhys made it nicer. He’d stripped out of his lovely sweater, revealing the white v-neck tee he wore underneath. Rhys’ tattoos went on for a while, Tim was pleased to discover.

“So.” Rhys bumped Tim’s shoulder. “What do you think about this date?”

Tim grinned at him. “One of your better ones.” Alcohol had made his voice loose, made his face and body feel pleasantly warm.

Alcohol had quite an effect on Rhys too, it seemed. It turned his pretty cheeks pink, brought a shine to his eyes. Best of all, it made him very physically affectionate. He’d found excuses to grope Tim at least three times over the last hour.

“I agree,” Rhys said. “But I’ve been thinking… I think we can make it better.”

“Oh?”

Rhys pulled him to a stop. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually.” He wrapped his arms around Tim’s shoulders, leaned in like they were about to start dancing in a middle school gym.

Things came alive inside of Tim’s chest. Tim couldn’t think of what animal it might’ve been, because it felt like it was blooming and fluttering at the same time.

“Oh.” His mouth had gone dry. He put his hands on Rhys’ hips. “Tell me. What, uh.” He might not be completely hopeless, but his tongue could still give him trouble, trip up his words when they tried to leave his mouth. Tim winced. “What are you— “

Rhys kissed him, soft and sweet. Like it was easy. Like they’ve been kissing for years, and Tim had just forgotten. When Rhys opened his mouth like an invitation, Tim decided to become reacquainted. He wasn’t _completely_ hopeless, after all.

“That’s, uh. That made it better. You were right,” Tim said, once they’d broken apart.

“I usually am,” Rhys said, grinning. He listed forward, his nose brushing against Tim’s cheek. “I’m also.” He kissed the side of his mouth. “Very.” Again. “Very.” His jaw, now. “Smart.” His neck.

Later on, Tim would feel a little guilty for this. Making out like a pair of teenagers on a public street. But in that moment, with Rhys warm in his arms, his lips hot against his neck, Tim found it hard to care.

“Hey.” Rhys’ hands had migrated south, looking for warm indecency. He found it and gripped Tim’s ass. “I found your phone.”

Tim snorted, and buried his face in Rhys’ neck. “Good job,” he muttered as Rhys pulled his cell out of his back pocket.

Rhys didn’t let him go and Tim was in no hurry to move. He dragged his lips down Rhys’ neck, while he tapped something into his phone.

“That better be your number,” Tim said when Rhys tucked the cell back into his pocket.

“It is.” Rhys smacked a kiss on his cheek and disentangled himself at last. “I’d like to go home with you tonight, Tim.” Tim made a soft but enthusiastic noise of agreement. Rhys smiled ruefully and shook his head. “But I shouldn’t. I don’t think you’re a murderer, but I should at least try to be safe.”

“You’re right,” Tim said, stifling his disappointment. “You are pretty smart.” He tweaked Rhys’ nose.

“Told you.” He leaned in and stole a final kiss. “Next time, though,” he said, promise like a ripple of caramel through his voice. “Next time, I’ll follow you home.”

“I’m glad,” Tim said in a voice like rocky road. At least Rhys didn’t seem to care.

“Text me as soon as you lose sight of me,” Rhys said as he pulled back.

“Okay.”

“I mean it! I want to see your phone in your hands,” Rhys said as he stumbled down towards the transit stop. Tim laughed.

“And I want to watch you leave,” he called back. “Keep an eye on where you’re going, doofus.”

Tim had his phone in his hands before Rhys even stepped onto the streetcar. Rhys had taken the liberty of adding a winking emoji and a heart to his contact info on Tim’s phone.

‘Heart emojis? that’s a little forward…’ he typed before he could reconsider.

‘Definitely,’ came the response. ‘Next time i’ll show u just how forward i can get ;)))))’

“God, I hope so,” Tim muttered, smiling hard enough to make his face ache.

**Author's Note:**

> North Child is an amalgamation of two of my favourite cafe/bars in Toronto: Voodoo Child and Northwood. this information is useless to you. i'm bad at naming stuff.
> 
> Come and give me a hard time over at nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


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